The first thing Elara felt was the weight. Heavy air pressing against her chest, thick with the scent of rust, sweat, and something floral—something old.
Her eyes blinked open slowly, vision blurry, colors muted.
She was lying on a rough straw mattress, the ceiling above her made of wood—aged and cracked, with cobwebs hanging like thin lace.
She sat up too quickly.
A wave of nausea hit her, and her vision swam. But instinct kicked in. Survival. Escape. Run.
She scanned her surroundings.
She was in a small, dimly lit room. No glass windows—just wooden shutters barely cracked open, letting in slivers of dusty light. The walls were made of faded adobe. A ceramic jug sat in the corner. Her hands trembled as she looked down at herself.
Gone was the silk dress, the designer heels, the diamond bracelet.
She wore a faded cotton blouse tucked into a high-waisted skirt. No labels. No zippers. Just buttons. Old-fashioned buttons.
She stumbled to the mirror across the room.
Her face stared back at her—bare, pale, wild.
But the calendar behind her was what froze her blood.
AUGUST 1983.
Her breath caught.
"No," she whispered. "No. No, no, no—"
She stumbled back, clutching her chest.
This was a nightmare. A delusion. Shock from the shooting. Some kind of brain trauma.
But everything felt real. The scratch of the fabric. The grainy floor beneath her bare feet. The smell of palm oil and earth outside.
There was a sudden knock at the door.
"Elira," a woman's voice called from outside. "You no go market today?"
Elira?
She looked around, heart racing.
"Elira!" the voice repeated, louder. "You dey sleep till night?"
Footsteps approached. The wooden door creaked open, and a young woman entered. She wore a wrapper tied across her chest and carried a metal bowl of cassava flour.
"Wetin do you?" the woman asked, peering at her curiously. "You be ghost?"
Elara opened her mouth, but no sound came out.
The girl shook her head. "Abeg stand up. Make we go. Na Mama Oje dey wait for you."
The door shut.
Elara sat in stunned silence.
She had a new name. A new body. A new time.
She wasn't Elara Dane anymore.
---
Later that day, after being forced to help in the market—carrying baskets, speaking broken Yoruba, and trying to mimic what she heard—Elara returned to the small house and collapsed on the bed.
She'd pieced together some terrifying facts:
Everyone believed she was **"Elira"—a market girl who worked for an elderly woman named Mama Oje.
No one had heard of television.
The most modern thing she'd seen was a cassette player in a shop window.
Her phone, tucked in her waistband when she escaped, was gone.
She cried that night.
Not for her lost modeling career or her fame.
Not even for her murdered lover.
She cried because she had no idea how to survive here. Not in this world, not in this time.
And somewhere out there, General Damon Kessler was still alive.
Or… maybe he hadn't been born yet.
Or worse—
What if he was here, too?
---
Two Days Later
Elara was sweeping the front of Mama Oje's shop, trying not to pass out in the afternoon sun, when she heard shouting.
Boots. Marching.
She turned.
Soldiers.
A truck rolled into the village square, kicking up red dust. Uniformed men leapt off the back, barking orders. Children ran, women scattered, men bowed their heads respectfully.
And then she saw him.
Damon.
No uniform.
No medals.
But unmistakable.
He looked younger—no gray streaks, no scars. He wore a plain olive shirt, sleeves rolled up, revealing corded arms. He strode with confidence, barking orders in clear, clipped English.
He was here. In 1983.
Elara ducked into the stall, heart thundering.
He hadn't seen her.
Yet.
But he would.
And when he did, what would he remember?
Would he still be the same cold, terrifying man who once controlled her life?
Or would this Damon be different?
A blank slate?
A second chance?
---